


Back to the Garden

by calliette, hazel



Category: Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Class Issues, F/M, Futurefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-25
Updated: 2011-12-25
Packaged: 2017-10-28 02:00:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calliette/pseuds/calliette, https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazel/pseuds/hazel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mary and Dickon fell in love between the bluebells and the mistletoe, although only Dickon would think of the flowers when he remembered it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Back to the Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hesychasm](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hesychasm), [Jintian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jintian/gifts).



Mary and Dickon fell in love between the bluebells and the mistletoe, although only Dickon would think of the flowers when he remembered it. For Mary, it was the first time he talked to her, and not about flowers or the mushrooms he’d gather or how his mother was finding it harder and harder to stretch to hang up the heavy linen sheets. It was the first time since the war he talked to her not as the young lady from the house, nor as the most delicate of his roses, but just as Mary, his equal.

It was October now, the grounds thick with orange and red. Mary had summered in London and at the sea, days filled with fittings of short skirts that were the latest style and surreptitious haircuts. The evenings, she’d spent in smoky ballrooms and at garden parties, meeting eligible young man after eligible young man, their hair oiled back, in beautifully cut pin-striped suits. Dickon had spent the summer in the garden, as he had every summer except for the horrible one in France, but he’d never written to her about that.

As the train rolled north, Mary had wished she had Dickon’s quiet faith. It wasn’t that he expected things to always work out – his life had been clear evidence to the contrary. But once he believed something was going to happen, no detail would upset that confidence. Her head, in contrast, was a mass of thoughts that threatened to overwhelm her and were only slightly interrupted by the arrival of the drinks trolley. She knew that her parents had left her money, but she’d never seen the sums. There’d always been enough for whatever dresses she’d chosen, for her to purchase whatever gardening equipment she wanted, and for her to have as good a time as she could possibly manage in London, but her time since she debuted had been broken up by quarterly allowances, as sure as the change of seasons. She and Dickon had never spoken about money, both unwilling to bring up a subject that could only be awkward; she did not know how he would react to living off his wife, even if she could obtain access to her capital.

Now here she was, a world away from London and the sea, perched on a wooden armchair by the window of the crofter’s cottage. She wore her favourite green muslin dress (Dickon had once called it very pretty) and her hair was carefully set for this meeting. She knew Dickon’s family, of course, knew his sister Martha well and had met his mother several times, bringing bottles of preserves and estate cider up to the cottage for Christmas each year. This meeting was different, though. She was here not as a lost lamb brought home by Dickon, nor as the young lady of the House, but as Dickon’s future bride.

Martha had the water boiling on top of the wood-burner; a modern box that Dickon had saved up for with his Army pay and installed during the dreadful time just after France where he would only talk to the birds. “Would you like a cup of tea, Miss Mary?” she asked, and Mary flushed.

“Please, Martha,” she pleaded, “would you call me Mary?”

Martha turned away. “I’ll try, Mary,” but her name came out awkwardly emphasised.

Dickon, leaning against the wall and holding on tightly to his mug, changed the subject, and fully five minutes passed in exchanges about the weather, the gardens, and how Colin was doing up at Cambridge.

Her mug of tea drained, Mary followed Dickon outside, thanking Mrs Sowerby very nicely for her hospitality and smiling at Martha. They had barely gone a hundred yards from the house, her clutching his arm, when she felt she could go no further. Taking a couple of steps backwards, she leaned against an old sycamore tree, trembling.

Dickon placed a hand on her arm. “Mary, come on now – it will be alright. I know it’s not easy for you, but it’s not going to be easy for me either, all those people just waiting for me to do something wrong. If we’re getting married, we’re going to have to be able to handle things like this.”

Mary nodded and forced herself upright. “Of course, darling,” she said, “but I worry about getting things wrong as well.”

“I know, love.” Carefully, he pulled her towards him, and she reached her arms around his neck, pulling his lips down to meet hers, then letting him walk her to the garden.


End file.
